The Tao of Sam and Freddie
by crackers4jenn
Summary: An immediate continuation of iThink They Kissed, except with actual results. Sam and Freddie, with some Carly. This story follows the episode, then departs into fanfic territory. Freddie slowly comes to realize there's more to Sam than a love for chicken.
1. Chapter 1

"You're avoiding."

Freddie turned his head towards Carly, which, given their current lounging situation, was a lot harder than it usually was. They were on their backs, on the floor. "Do you know how impossible it would be for me to avoid anything in this situation?" he said to her. "I can give you statistics."

From beside him, Sam groaned, "I feel sick enough as it is. Quit talking math, it's grossing me out."

Carly wiggled. Freddie felt that wiggle pretty precisely, and if he savored it? Well, who could blame him. Duct taped to the girl, after all, and he was a man, or nearing, and it was all he'd ever dreamed about as a kid, so, yeah, there was some savoring going on. It lasted until an elbow planted itself into his ribs, making him squeak out something way undignified. Sam. With the elbow. Hitting him, of course.

Sighing a maternal sigh, Carly said, "No inflicting bodily harm, Sam. You'll make him pass out like last time, and what if those prison men come back and see us here, all defenseless and floor-bound, and Freddie's passed out, huh?"

Before Sam could offer up an insult at Freddie's manhood, he cut in. "Hey! Can we not emasculate me? Please?"

"Fine," Carly grumbled, "but I'm still mad because you're all avoid-y. What's up with the avoid-y?"

Freddie rolled his eyes. "I'm _not_ avoiding. I just think there are better things to discuss than whether or not I had _fun_ kissing Sam. Like, and I'm just throwing this out there, _ESCAPING CAPTIVITY_."

"Oh, relax," Carly said. "Spencer will be back soon."

"He's serenading some _girl_ with a _banjo_. That could take hours."

"Really? Hours? Boy, you sure overestimate the power of--"

"Spencer?"

"I was going to say banjo, but alright." Then, hesitantly: "Is that how you, you know."

Freddie sighed. His legs were going numb from being bound around the legs of the chair. Plus, he was pretty sure his entire face was red, since all the blood had to be draining in that direction. If he got some kind of related headache, he would not be a happy camper. "No, I don't know," he said.

"You and Sam. _You know_."

Sam was being quiet beside him. Suspiciously. But her head was turned to the other side and all he got was a view of her curly hair, so if she was up to any nefarious activity, he couldn't tell. Why was she letting him go through this interrogation nightmare alone? Probably because she was evil. And conniving.

Carly was going on, awkwardly, "Was there a banjo? Or some other tool of serenading purpose, like maybe a clavichord?"

"Clavichord?"

"It exists!" she defended.

There was a loud growl beside him and Sam started doing what was similar in style to what a 4-year old Freddie would perform whenever he needed to use the restroom. Officially demonstrated in the very many embarrassing video tapes his Mom still had and known as The Potty Dance. But instead of a run towards the bathroom, Sam flung her arms free of the restraints.

"Yes!" she yelled.

From the other side of Freddie, Carly tried to peer around. "You're free? Was that an exclamation of freedom I just heard?"

Freddy confirmed, "Way to go, Sam. That was most definitely a freedom exclamation. C'mon, help me out."

"Yeah, hold your shiz," she muttered, peeling duct tape off her shirt. She rolled up the torn pieces and tossed them aside.

"Sam," Carly laughed, clearly impressed, "how did you break free?"

Sam sounded smug when she answered, "What can I say? Mama works out." She worked the tape far enough over Freddie's chest that his left arm was free, and he took it from there, ripping it until Carly could take over.

"Yay," Carly said when the tape around their upperbodies wasn't constricting them anymore. "Go us."

They were all sitting up, as far as they could go, anyway, with their legs still taped in place.

Carly whined, "This is humiliating."

"Wholly," Freddie agreed.

"Yeah, yeah, how awful. Now how 'bout you girls quit your crying and start helping me out, would ya?"

There was a good-sized pause. Then Carly said, "Uh, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam grunted. "What?"

Carefully, Carly said, "Where'd ya get the knife?"

Sam stopped slicing through the tape. She held the knife in question up, admiring its shine. Freddie inched as far away as he could. The thing had _at least_ a 4-inch blade, and he was a fragile bleeder.

"Oh, this?" Sam shrugged. "Present from Grams three Christmas' ago."

Freddie ventured, "And you always... carry it around?"

"No," she gasped, "today I called it out of thin air using only the power of my mind." With her non-knife hand, she flicked him on the forehead. Then she was cutting tape again. "Yeah, I carry it around. It makes me feel safe."

"_Okay_," Carly drawled, sharing a look with Freddie. All of a sudden, Sam was making those happy noises again, pulling the tape off her legs. Before Freddie could register the dangerous gleam in her eyes, she yanked his side of the tape, hard, making him yelp.

"Hair," he somehow managed to say, grabbing at his now bare shins. He could see the curly little hairs sticking to the tape Carly was now reluctant to grab. His leg hair. His precious leg hair.

"Oh, gross," Carly whined, grimacing.

Sam smirked, admiring her work. "My, what pretty legs you have."

He stirred up his most powerful glare. "_You_ did this to me."

With a dramatic intake of air and a round, puckered mouth, Sam wondered, "Little ol' me?"

The knife was no longer in her hand--probably tucked away in a pocket also housing a meat of some kind--but since he now knew she was carrying concealed, he didn't press the issue. Besides, the tape was all the way gone and he was free. He pushed backwards, scurrying, really, like a crab, moving as far away as his limited arm strength allowed.

"Ow, ow, ow," Carly was grouching.

Sam collapsed to the side, her hair fanning out beneath her. "Now what?"

"Lotion," Carly winced, rubbing the red marks where the tape once was. "We lotion like we've never lotioned before."

Freddie was the first to try to get up. He made it to his knees before he crumpled back down into an undignified heap.

Sam's head lolled in his direction. "Well, that was impressive."

He tried to glare, but it held no wrath. It softened into exhaustion. "We were immobile for too long. All the blood must've rushed from our legs--"

"Blah, blah, blah." Sam cut in, bored. "You should try hearing yourself talk sometime. Really."

"See, this makes sense," Carly said, loud, like she was making a point. A slightly hysterical point, but still. "The bickering. Sure, it's inappropriate, 'cause, hello. Fugitives on the loose. Evil, kid-tying fugitives who broke out of jail in Spencer's tall-pants art. But it's what you do. How does kissing happen when there's all this bickering?"

Face down, talking into carpet, Freddie said, "For the last time--" just as the front door flew open, and then Spencer was there.

"Finally," Sam sighed.

Spencer threw his banjo to the couch and then flung himself against the cushions as well. "So when that girl said_ banjo_, apparently she meant _ukulele_. Ugh," he complained, "all of my _sweet_ banjo moves, _thwarted_."

"Uh, Spencer?" Carly piped up.

"Who even owns a ukulele, anyway? Seriously. No one, that's who. No one owns a ukulele because _UKULELES ARE NOT COOL_."

"Spencer?"

"So that's my night. What are you guys doing on the floor?"

"I've been _trying_ to tell you--" Carly said, but Sam suddenly stood up and started brushing herself off.

"These two cheeseheads got us hogtied to the kitchen chairs."

"Hey!" Freddie and Carly said at the same time.

Sam held up pacifying hands. "Just saying. _I_ didn't tell them I was going to call the cops."

"Yeah," Freddie said, "Well _I_ didn't show them where the duct tape was."

"It was one lousy mistake, okay!" Carly maintained. "I'm a very honest person."

"Uh, okay," Spencer said, confused, "but... huh?"

"Dude," Sam said, "your giant pants here nearly got us killed."

Carly was starting to stand, wobbly-legged. She held onto the kitchen counter for support. "Remember earlier when you taught art to a bunch of really bad men at that prison?"

"Uh, yeah. I came home to tell you about it but you blew me off."

Outraged, Carly retorted, "I did not."

"Did too. I remember 'cause I wrote a song about it on my banjo." Spencer reached for the banjo. "Want to hear?"

"NO!" Sam and Carly yelled together.

Freddie was up now too, leaning against the couch. Bringing them back to the more pressing matter, he said, "You had a couple of hitchers."

Torn between annoyance at being brushed off once again in the face of his banjo-playing prowess and befuddlement, Spencer said, "Say what now?"

Sam let out an annoyed bellow. "You went to that stupid prison, you made this freakish pair of pants, and when you left, you weasled out a couple of fugitives."

"_Two_," Freddie emphasised.

Carly finished in one breath, "They were mean, they tied us up, they escaped out the back, but then we escaped 'cause Sam has a knife in her pocket and we couldn't move 'cause all the blood rushed to our heads and now you're here and it's not my fault I showed them where the duct tape was, okay?!"

"Ohh," Spencer said, nodding. Then it all clicked into place and he said, more worriedly, "_Ohhhhhh._" He jumped to his feet and his eyes were wide with shock. "The pants! That's why it was so heavy lugging it up all the stairs!"

"Well, what did you think!" Carly cried out. "It's just pants! You should've checked!"

"Okay, okay," Sam broke in. "This is pointless. What do we do now?"

"We call the cops," Freddie answered.

"Yeah, that's the kind of thinking that got us into this mess in the first place."

Freddie pushed off the couch. "Hey, don't go blaming me--"

"Oh, I'll blame whoever I want," Sam snapped back.

"I didn't _do_ anything," he said, stepping towards her.

Sam stood her ground and shouted, "What a surprise! Frednerd the anti-hero--"

"Guys!" Carly yelled. It was loud enough to silence them both. "Dangerous men on the loose, remember?"

Spencer rushed into his room and shouted along the way, "I'm calling the police!"

As if that was her cue, Sam turned on her heels, towards the door. "I'm outtie."

"What?" Carly balked. "You're going? What if they're still out there? What if they're waiting outside, with menacing things like rope and some other girl's duct tape?"

"And?" She tapped her pocket where the knife was. "I'll be fine. Remember?"

Even so, Carly stepped forward. "But--"

"Look," she said, "I don't do cops, okay? Had enough of 'em as it is." There was something in her voice that made Carly stop, and made her listen.

"Okay," Carly relented, hesitantly.

Freddie sighed. Like he'd assigned himself a very tall plank to walk, he said, "I'll go with you."

Sam and Carly both said, "What?!" with different degrees of surprise and violence.

"She obviously can't go by herself--"

"Watch yourself, Benson," Sam warned.

He let out another deep breath. "I'm only saying. Carly's right. It's dangerous out there."

"Wake up and smell the ammonia. You live in a glass bubble. It's _always_ dangerous where you're concerned. One stubbed toe and your Mom's got the ER on speed dial."

Spencer poked his head back into the room. "Police are on the way. They, uh, seem confused about the pants."

Sam was at the door. "Time for me to bounce. If anyone asks, I wasn't here." Then she was gone.

Freddie started after her. From behind, Carly said, "So you're going with her?"

"She can't go out there alone--"

"She'll be fine."

He spun around and said, "Two seconds ago, you _just_ said it was dangerous--"

"Well, normal-person dangerous. Sam has a higher tolerance for danger. Like a vaccination."

Spencer looked concerned. It was a new look for him. "Actually, she probably shouldn't go alone."

"I agree," said Freddie, smugly, like Spencer had just proved his point by taking his side.

"Oh, fine," Carly groused. "But if this is some other secret kissing thing--"

"It's not a kissing thing!" Freddie shouted as he slammed the door behind him. Man, you admit to one kiss in your life and it's held over your head forever. At a pace that would make his Mom keel over or break out the knee/elbow guards if she was around to witness, he started after Sam. Who, he saw as he rounded that first corner, was standing in front of the elevator.

She was whistling, and when her eyes landed on his, she fixed him with a pointed look. One of those _you really are as stupid as you look, Benson_ stares she'd been giving him since Carly first introduced the two of them back in the much simpler days of elementary school.

He saddled up to her side, casually, like he wasn't all but running after her like a mother hen. She was still whistling. Freddie cleared his throat, but before he could say anything, she started in. "So, kissing?"

Was there a place he could go where he would be free from such talk? Letting out a breath, he said, "You heard?"

"The kid does have a nice set of pipes."

"She's just..." Then he realized that he didn't know what Carly was. Concerned? Weirdly fixated? Jealous? I mean, a guy could hope, right?

Sam caught the starry-eyed look he'd evidently been giving off and rolled out meanly, "Yeah, reel it back in, Fredwad. She's not jealous."

Freddie started sputtering. He never even_ implied_ that Carly was jealous. "I _know_," he laughed pathetically.

"So how come you're all pale, then?" She grabbed his hand just long enough for him to feel her fingers touching his before she flung it away. "And your palms are sweating. Getting caught in a quiver imagining Carls' going all green-faced over us, aren't you?"

Another forced laugh. "I so... am _not_." But he was, sort of. All of a sudden his stomach was up in his throat and his heart was thudding like crazy in his ribcage.

Sam turned to the elevator and jabbed the button a couple of times. "Whatever," she muttered. "I don't need a babysitter. I walked here by myself, I can walk back by myself, same as I always do."

Freddie pushed down the sudden rise of nerves. Part of it was Carly-induced madness, some of it frustration because of _course_ Sam had to be so stubborn all the time. "Look, you can't just go out there by yourself--"

She turned towards him quick enough that he nearly stumbled. "I don't _need_ a babysitter," she told him again, daring him to say otherwise.

"And believe me, I'm not _looking_ to babysit."

"Yeah? So what do you call this, then?"

"I don't know. Unpaid assistance?" he joked.

Sam snorted, unamused. She stabbed at the button again. With a kick to the elevator that made some godawful noise rumble from within the shaft, she yelled, "Ugh! What's taking this thing so long?!"

"Maybe we should take the stairs?"

"I don't _do_ stairs."

"Fine," he grumbled.

She muttered back, "Fine."

A few stretched seconds passed before she blurted out, "So what is it, then?"

He turned his head to look at her, but she was staring straight ahead. "What is what?"

"You know, denseness suits you."

"I'm serious. What?"

"Why can't you just answer her stupid question?"

That gut-in-his-throat feeling came back, tenfold. When he tried to talk, his mouth felt dry. A very manly reaction to have, obviously, and it was simply because he was surprised that Sam was bringing the topic up, that's all. "I don't know," he croaked. "I didn't know we were discussing it."

"Discussing?" she sneered, and she had rounded on him, backing him up against the wall. If he knocked against it real hard, maybe his Mother would hear. "You make it sound like some boring science project you had to take home."

She was practically pinning him in, but he stood up to his full height, looming a few inches over her. Gotta love that summer growth spurt. "Yeah, well what did you want me to say? _You_ weren't saying anything."

"She wasn't asking me, meatwad!" And Freddie realized that, yeah, Sam was right. Carly kept firing those kissing questions at him. All of the accusation. Sam took notice of his realization and drawled, "Yeah, that's right. She didn't care that _I_ kissed you. She cared that--"

"_I_ kissed _you_," Freddie said, dazed. It couldn't be true.

Sam backed up, giving him some room. "Show the pinhead what he's won."

Freddie caught her eyes. "But. I mean."

"Go on. Run inside, get your diary. Write it down while the memory's fresh. The girl's jealous."

Freddie almost laughed. "But _why_?"

"Why do you think? Ever since you first laid your grubby eyes on her, it's been Mrs. Freddie Shay. Now all of a sudden she thinks you've got the hots for..." She trailed off, eyes darting towards the elevator. For emphasis, she pressed the button a couple of times. He could hear her muttering under her breath, a string of colorful adjectives the elevator probably didn't deserve.

Freddie filled in sarcastically, "You?"

Sam answered with a dry laugh. "I know, right?"

"But," Freddie said, struggling with the idea. "That's... absurd. I mean. It's ridiculous. It's--"

"The fried chicken of crazy, we get it," Sam said, and turned on her heels.

Freddie followed after her. "Wait. Where are you going?"

Over her shoulder, she called out, "Stairwell."

"I thought you said you don't _do _stairs?"

"Yeah, well, I got tired of your mouth flapping, so I guess in the face of great challenge I can overcome anything. Nice, huh? You can stop following me, by the way."

With a burst of annoyance, he caught up to her. Out of habit or born forth from not thinking, he grabbed her by the elbow to slow her down, but she gave him one mean looking glower before jerking free. He bit back his upteenth sigh and said, "Listen, it still could be dangerous out there--"

She stopped in front of the stairwell and delivered a taunting line. "Why not run back to Carls'? You already know she's jealous. Go seal the deal."

He couldn't help it. "Seal the deal?"

"Serenade her with a banjo! I don't know! Whatever it is you've had dreamed up since you were still wetting the bed."

"That was a _burst water balloon_," he defended, and she _knew_ that.

"Whatevs."

There was a noise in the closest apartment, like someone was pressed up against the door, listening. Probably peering through the peephole. Sam eyed the the place with disgust, while Freddie took her by the elbow again and ushered her into the staircase. She protested but he didn't let up until the door had clicked shut behind them.

"What's your malfunction?" she cried out, and her voice echoed.

He said through a clenched jaw, "Keep it down."

She eyeballed him while she shouted, "Freddie eats his own toe cheese and his Mom still burps him!" It bounced loudly off the walls, down the stairs. "Who cares? No one can hear."

That was it. Try to help someone, and what do you get? Ridiculed. Yeah, it was Sam, it's not like it was unexpected behavior, but he thought maybe in the face of potential danger she'd dial down the recklessness. Apparently not. Fed up with her abusive behavior, he reached for the doorknob. He would just explain to Carly that Sam refused to be escorted and it wasn't his fault if her picture showed up on some milk carton in another state.

Then Sam said "Wait!" with enough forced evenness that it stopped him. His back was turned to her, but he could tell she was having trouble getting the next part out. "I take it back," she finally managed. "Okay?"

It was as close to an apology as Sam would ever give without the attachment of a wedgie, and that actualization sat heavy inside him. He was smiling when he turned back around. Grinning, actually, from ear-to-ear. Sam saw it and whined, "Ugh, quit it. You look like a clown. Those things give me the hives."

And the grin deflated. "Let's just go before it gets dark."

She took up the smile he lost, teasing, "You sure? It's not too late for you to turn around, you know. Run back to Carly's and sweep her into your big, manly arms--"

He actually rolled his eyes. "Okay, _Sam_."

Pleased with his response, she laughed. "Plant a big, wet smooch on her--"

"Cut it out."

Another laugh, this one lighter. "Oh, you big beefcake," she joked.

"So what?" he said, puffed up with some fake bravado. "Maybe I could. Maybe she'd even let me."

With her face flushed pink from laughing, Sam said, "Without her gag reflex kicking in?" A disbelieving scoff. "Good luck with that."

"Yeah?" Freddie wondered. He moved in close, almost nose-to-nose. "You managed to work your way around that. _Remember_?" He would relish the kicked-in-the-stomach look in her eyes she gave him that split second that followed his words for the rest of his life, Freddie decided in that instant, and smirked the smirk of the victorious.

Eyes too wide to be casual, Sam none-the-less played the role of indifferent. "Ahh, don't flatter yourself. I had meatball taste in my mouth. Anything was bound to taste good."

Freddie blurted, "Good?" He'd replayed their kiss a couple of times, out of boredom, and maybe once or twice during those recounts igood/i had sprang to mind, but she'd used the word--

"Nice," she backtracked. "Acceptable. Whatever."

"Right." His palms were sweaty again. He wiped them on his jeans. "Whatever."

"So," Sam said, drawing it out. There was a silence. Then, "We should probably... go."

"Right," Freddie said again. Sam held his stare for a long moment, then turned and started bounding down the stairs. Freddie stayed where he was and called out, "It's just--!"

Sam stopped and sighed and turned around. "What is it now?"

He cleared his throat. "Do you really think..."

"That you'd be a pretty, pretty Princess if only you had the right tiara?" She climbed a step closer.

"Very funny."

Another step. "I try."

"The gagging thing. Do you think Carly would... I mean." He scratched at the back of his head and, oh god, even he could feel the flame of a spreading blush. Sam would call him out on it and it'd be another argument revolving around his faltering male dignity.

She was one step below him, staring at him. Weirdly, not looking malicious. "C'mon, Benson," she laughed, but not meanly. "I was kidding."

"So I _was_ good?" he said, pleased, and the satisfied smirk came back. Oh, yeah. Freddie Benson, a crowd pleaser. Awesome with the ladies.

"I just said, didn't I?"

"A repeat would be nice."

She coiled tight a fist. "How 'bout a busted mouth instead?"

"Okay, okay." Then a thought occurred to him. "You weren't bad either, you know."

She scoffed, "I know."

"Oh."

Awkwardly, she looked away. "Well. Thanks."

He coughed. "No problem. Just... sharing data."

Her eyes locked on his again, this fire burning dangerously within. "Data?"

Groaning, he said, "That was the wrong thing to say, wasn't it? _Stupid_," he chided himself.

"Ya think? Besides," she said, and climbed the last step, forcing him to back up. "I was more than just _not bad._" Before he knew what was happening, Sam was kissing him. Freddie stumbled back against the wall even as Sam pushed farther into him, and this was something way different than what they'd shared that first time. Back then it was all nerves and slowness and a careful sort of hesitation, but now Sam had her arms wrapped around Freddie's neck, their bodies actually _touching_.

There was a flurry of rushed information that clouded his mind like a smoke bomb, most alarmingly the reality that _Sam_ was kissing him, and he just stood there, limp, his arms dangling stupidly at his sides while her mouth opened against his. And then he closed his eyes, squeezed them tight, and started kissing her back, and there it was again, that heart-hammering-in-his-ribcage feeling, the stomach-in-his-throat sensation.

Just as it was getting good, she reeled back. It took a couple of shocked seconds before he could open his eyes, and when he did, she was staring at him, a hand held against her slack mouth. Abruptly she blurted, "That didn't count."

"You just kissed me," he told her.

The hand fell away. "I was proving a point!"

Suddenly, anger swelled. So he was some kind of experiment now? "It being?"

"Well, that wasn't bad, was it?"

"Sam!"

"What?!"

"You can't just _throw_ your lips around to make a point!"

"Uh, I didn't_ throw_ them anywhere."

"You threw them at my face!"

"And you're lucky it was just my lips and not one of my shoes!"

He rocked on his his heels in frustration, wheeled around. "You are so--"

"Careful. I've still got a shoe, you know."

He swung back towards her. "You are the single most frustrating person I know, you know that? And that's _including_ my Mom, who, by the way, still insists on tucking me in at night even though, until just this evening, I had man-hair growing on my legs!"

"See, that's not something you want to tell me."

"Don't you think I don't know that? Don't you think I haven't spent most of my formative years reminding myself that at any given time you'll humiliate me or belittle me or send me to the infirmary--"

She actually looked offended. "Geez, Benson. So I harp on you. Big whoop."

He couldn't help the high pitch yelp. "Big _whoop_? You assault me in more ways than one _every_ day of my miserable life, and all you can say is _big whoop_?"

"You're welcome?"

"And then you kiss me."

Sam's chagrined look swiftly changed into fury. "That wasn't a _kiss_."

"Sure felt like one."

"Like you would know." Realizing the lack of logic in that, Sam tried a new tactic. "What're you so worried about, anyway? Like I'd ever tell Carly. I'm never going back to that psycho dentist, so your secret's safe, okay? And I'm going home now and if you try to follow me, I swear, Freddork, I iwill/i push you down these stairs, I don't care how loud you scream."

"So that's it? That's how you're going to leave it?"

With an aggravated glance upwards, like someone in some ethereal place was getting its rocks off at Sam's expense, she said, "Yup. Exactly like this."

"Real mature, Sam."

Sam mustered up a teeth-baring grin before twirling around, marching downstairs. Her hair bounced at her shoulders as she took the steps two at a time. "What can I say. Maturity is what Puckett's do best."

He held back from commenting as she wove around the stairwell, down the next length of stairs before disappearing from view. He could hear her footfall echoing, and he stood there listening until it was only a faint sound. When at last he heard the far away slam of the lobby stairwell entrance and its reverberations that scattered upstairs, he sighed, running a frustrated hand threw his hair. Sam would keep quiet. He knew that. And there was something about her willing silence that both bothered him and filled him with a kind of dread, even while it mellowed him out.

Whatever it was, Freddie wasn't going to sit there dwelling on it. He tugged at the doorknob, but nothing happened. He tried again and got the same result. A couple more frantic pulls, but the thing wouldn't budge.

"C'mon!" he yelled, kicking it. "Ah, man!" But it was pointless, as was the garbled, frustrated noise he let loose while he all but stomped petulantly downstairs. It was all Sam's fault, of course, because she was the one who insisted on bailing before the cops came, she was the one who didn't want to wait for the elevator--heck, she probably rigged the door so that it locked behind them, imprisoning him.

When he'd made it down the many flights of stairs, muttering not-so-nice things about Sam under his breath along the way, he let out a thankful, "Finally," that ended with a loud, girly scream when Sam scared the shiz out of him by suddenly stepping out of the shadows.

"Sam!" he screeched, his voice hitched high enough that it took him back to a few months ago when he was in stuck in that transitional pre-pubescent phase. _Not_ a good time.

She was chuckling. "You didn't wet yourself, did you?"

He straightened his clothes with great purpose, tugging at his shirt. "What are you doing here? I thought you had gone."

"Yeah, well." She sat down on the bottom step. "I figured I'd hang out a while. You know, work on my appetite."

Freddie was baffled. "Uh, in the stairwell?"

"No," she mocked, "in a Persian rug-covered trashcan. So what?"

"So," he said, and slowly sat down beside her. Carefully, he wondered, "Isn't that a little... strange?"

Sam shrugged. "What do I care about strange?"

Good point. "Yeah, but. I heard the door slam--"

She wiggled her fingers in his face, smiling. "All part of the show."

"I see."

"What about you?" she asked, turning the tables on him. Her voice had an edge to it. "I thought I told you to quit following me?"

He glanced upwards at the spiral of staircases. "The door was locked."

"Oh," she laughed. "That blows."

"Yeah," he agreed.

"So," she said.

"So," he concurred.

Sam stared off, almost kind of fondly. "What a night."

Yeah, that about covered it.


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, Freddie had managed to avoid Carly's intense and incessant pestering throughout school the next day. Probably because of the years of experience he had from dodging Sam whenever Sam was in a particularly brutal mood. All of that previous history, you get used to hiding out in the boy's bathroom. Sure, sometimes you hunker down in an unpleasant stall and the other kids take notice, but not always.

Now his watch ticked away fast seconds, careening towards 4:30pm; their usual rehearsal time for iCarly.

Freddie mustered up some courage, but before he had time to rap a knock on Carly's door, it flew open.

"Oh, look," said Carly with exaggerated cheerfulness, grabbing him by the hand. "It's Freddie." She dragged him in and slammed the door after him. Normally Carly holding his hand was cause for a mini mental photo snap of the moment, something he would non-creepily think about later (alright, and sometimes a little creepily--it didn't mean anything!), but now he mostly felt terror. She didn't look so calm.

With a shaky laugh, Freddie said, "Hey, Carly."

"Don't you _'hey, Carly'_ me!" she yelled, flinging his hand away. Freddie took a few cautious, maybe hysterical looking steps around the sofa, away from her. She followed after him, saying, "Only people who don't spend all day avoiding me can address me like that!"

Freddie kept a three step pace ahead of her. To distract her and to save himself in the process, he asked as casually as he could muster, "So where's Sam?"

Carly's eyes narrowed, squinting dangerously at him. "You never ask about Sam."

That wasn't true. Was it? Alright, it was probably true, but that didn't have to mean anything, did it? Surely it didn't make him seem guilty of something, right?

Her eyes got even narrower. Scary, knowing slits. "How come you're asking about Sam, Freddie, huh, huh, huh?" She jabbed an accusatory finger at him.

Freddie nearly toppled over the arm chair next to the sofa. That would not have been cool. Before something like that did actually happen, he got down to the point of things and hollered, "Why are you chasing me?!"

"I always walk like this," she haughtily defended.

He rounded the coffee table fast enough that he slipped away from her. Pleased with his maneuvering, he pointed his own finger. "Do not! You walk sweetly, like a girl."

"Well, today I'm doing this!"

Then Sam was there, standing at the base of the stairs. "Uh, guys?"

"Oh, thank you," Freddie murmured gratefully, and ran to her. He planted himself directly behind her, making her his very own shield.

Confused, because, let's face it, normally Carly was the one blocking Sam from Freddie, Sam said, "This doesn't feel normal."

Carly had stopped in her pursuit, but the threat still loomed. "Freddie's being terrible!" she accused.

Freddie stepped half a step away from his Sam-protection. "That is _not_ true!" he argued.

"I don't know," Sam disagreed. She had her head bent around to peer at him, her eyes tracing over him skeptically. "You do look pretty terrible to me."

"Hah, hah," he shot back dryly.

"It's just," Carly whined, "he's Mr. Big Avoidance lately, and that raises a girl's suspicion, you know?"

Sam sympathized, "Tell me about it."

"Hey!" Freddie cried. "You're supposed to be on _my_ side."

"Uh, what freak, bizarro world are you in right now?" she threw back, and she was weirded out enough that she moved away, no longer a barricade between him and the wrath of Carly. It was like being thrown back into shark-infested waters. Freddie contemplated making a run for it, but Sam would probably catch him by the collar, and it'd just turn into a whole other _ordeal_. Stupid collar t-shirts.

"See, this is what I'm talking about!" Carly said. "In normal-world, Freddie hides from Sam, and, I have to think, there is no kissing going on!"

Sam grabbed her stomach and whined, "I just ate a ton of potato salad. I feel sick enough as it is without you using all those words together in the same sentence."

Freddie was worried about other things. Like the fact that their whole group balance was shifting, and he didn't like that even a little bit. "Can we _please_ stop talking about that?" he begged.

All of the crazy vanished from Carly, leaving her looking sad. She brushed past Sam and Freddie, saying, "I just wish you two would've told me about it, that's all," as she went up to the loft.

Freddie and Sam exchanged looks.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam sighed. "Quit looking so depressed."

Then she turned on her heels and jogged up after Carly, and Freddie groaned, rooted in place just a few lingering moments longer. Girls. Did they always have to be so problematic?

Upstairs, Carly was plopped down on one of the beanbag chairs. She was practically buried in the thing, looking swallowed up. Her head hung dramatically over the side, upside down, her hair long enough that it was touching the ground. Sam was hovering nearby, looking wary about settling into her own beanbag when the potential existed of uncomfortable conversation. She liked to have a battle-ready stance, and laying comfy in a beanbag was about the exact opposite of battle-ready.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Fine. I sit like this all the time, especially when things are i_peachy_/i!"

Sam turned back towards Freddie, who was hanging out in the safe zone near all his computer equipment. He shrugged wildly, all _like I know what to do in this situation! You're the girl. You fix it!_ Sam stared back meanly, her face saying, _Benson, you're about useful as a spatula._

With a huff and a deep, cleansing breath, Sam edged closer to Carly. "So," she said, drawing it out. At a loss as to where to go from there, she glanced back at Freddie, who threw his hands up in the air. _Seriously! Guy here! This is beyond my expertise._

Carly sat up, glowering. "I saw that. I'm not blind to wild gesticulations, you know."

Which got him another glare from Sam, who said, "Yeah, _Fredbert._

"You gestured wildly, too," Carly pointed out. Then clarified with some contempt, "In the eyebrow area."

Sam finally plunked down on the beanbag next to Carly. "I do have some sweet eyebrow moves."

"Sweetly awful," Carly muttered darkly.

Proudly, Sam smiled. "Yeah."

Then the bad mood vanished and Carly asked, with just a twinge of annoyance, "Can I just say something?"

"Spill it," Sam urged, happy that the grumpiness was gone.

Freddie was more wary, but he came around the front of his computer. "Of course."

Splitting looks between Sam and Freddie, Carly said, "Why didn't you just tell me about it in the first place?"

Sam fell back melodramatically against her beanbag. "Yeesh. You're like a broken record."

Carly pushed out of the stuffed seating. "I'm serious here," she demanded. "You could've told me at anytime, _both_ of you," she added, with a hard, pointed stare at Freddie, "and you didn't. I thought we were friends?"

"C'mon," Sam said, getting to her feet. "You know that's not it."

"Then what is it?"

Annoyed, Sam threw her arms in the air. "It was a kiss! A stupid kiss, _that's it_. We just did it to get it over with. You know, the whole 'first kiss' hoopla."

Carly rounded on Freddie. "So why didn't you ask me?"

His jaw nearly dropped. "Excuse me?"

She held her head high, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "If it was just to get it over with, why didn't you ask me?"

Sam laughed. "Have you been inhaling fumes?"

"Because," Freddie said, indignant, "you would've told me no, emphatically. Possibly with a visual aide."

"I so would have said--" Carly started, arrogantly, but Freddie's eyes widened, daring her to say otherwise, so she sulked and fessed, "No. I would've said _no_."

"A'ha!" he cried. "You see?"

"Dude," Sam said, shamed on Freddie's behalf. "Seriously?"

"It's just." Carly wasn't getting it. "If it was just a stupid kiss, why didn't one of you _say_ something?"

Sam blinked. "Yeah, see. That's not the kind of thing I'd just _mention_, oh... ever?"

"Looped up on laughing gas, you did. You couldn't stop talking about it! 'Me and Freddie kissed. _Mwah, mwah, mwah._ Don't tell Carly'."

"Ugh, that's it. I am never going to the dentist _again_."

"And what about you?" Carly said to Freddie. "You could've told me."

Freddie snorted. "And incur the wrath of Sam? No thanks."

Sam looked pleased. "Yeah. It wouldn't have been pretty."

With a sigh, Carly said, "Look, this is a lot to take in. Can we do the iCarly stuff tomorrow?"

Concern welled up inside Freddie. "You okay?"

Sam was a lot smarter, which is why she took Freddie by the sleeve of his shirt and dragged him towards the exit. "Sure thing, Carls. You look beat. Take a rest. And, hey, there's some potato salad left over if you catch a craving. Knock yourself out."

Carly sank back onto the bean bag. "Thanks." She didn't look up when the door closed behind her friends.

Back downstairs, Sam was rummaging through Carly's refrigerator. When she succeeded in finding some days old fried rice, she happily turned around, only to find Freddie standing there, all sad and pathetic.

She scoffed, "You're not going to cry, are you?"

Freddie gave her a hard look. "_No_."

"Good," Sam said, and brushed past him. She sat at the couch, pulled a fork out of her pants pocket, and started eating.

Freddie watched this happen with both awe and disgust.

Remembering her manners, at least partly, Sam asked "Want some?" with her mouth half full.

Freddie grimaced. "I'll pass."

Sam shrugged. "Your loss. This stuff's amazing."

With a sigh, Freddie reluctantly sat down next to her. The cushions sagged underneath them. He stared at his lap, trying not to sound lame. Then again, he was talking to Sam. No matter what he said, she'd interpret it as lame. "You think she's really upset?"

Sam swallowed the food in her mouth. There was a small pause before, "I don't know."

Freddie looked at her. "Think we should've told her?"

Another pause, longer this time. "Did you want to?"

"_No_," Freddie forcefully said. And in case he hadn't been clear enough, he tacked on, "No. No, no, no, no, no."

Sam stuck the fork back in the rice box. "So what're you asking me for?"

"Just, getting perspective, I guess."

"Boy, you sure know how to sweet talk a girl."

"What?"

"_Nothing_," she exhaled, and stood up. She offered up a flimsy excuse to bail, saying, "Mom's going to be waking soon, and I'm the one who's supposed to make sure she gets her meds, so. This is where I go and do that."

After she'd waved him off and left (leaving him with the mess of fried rice to clean up, as usual), he sank back into the couch and sighed and wondered, for the millionth time, why girls were so impossible to decode.

***

All it took was two days before things settled back into normalcy again. It was confusing, but the thing was, it was over. They'd reached some sort of conclusion that was actually more of a non-conclusion, where it was agreed that, for the sake of their continued friendship, secret-keeping was bad, but never, ever, _ever_ did they need to talk about Freddie kissing Sam, the end.

Which made Freddie a very happy guy, obviously.

He whistled blithely to himself while he prepped his computer equipment, the camera already in hand. Sam and Carly were on their marks, ready to go, too; Sam was flailing around, arms swinging every which way, while Carly did a bunch of really weird mouth exercises. Freddie loved weird mouth exercise day.

"Okay, guys," he called, moving to his main camera-man position. Show time. "In five, four--" and he counted down until he gave them the okay, flexing a _this is it_ finger.

Sam smiled, "I'm Sam."

"I'm Carly."

"And believe it or not, we don't actually live inside your computer, so quit asking us," Sam said, stern.

Carly donned an agreeing look. "That would hurt."

"That would hurt a lot."

Carly dropped the hard look for a smooth, carefree one. "You're shocked, I know, so let us soothe away your stupor--"

"Stupefaction," Sam added, proud of herself.

Carly blinked. "Word of the Day calendar?"

"You know it."

Smiling big, Carly continued, "We're smoothing away all stupor with a segment we here at iCarly like to call--" Sam pressed the appropriate button on her remote, which triggered the visual and audio sound effects, while together Sam and Carly shouted, "Robot Dancing!"

"So you're probably thinking," Carly said, and Sam cut in with, "What in the freeze-dried heck is Robot Dancing, and why do I care?"

Carly said, "Eloquently put," which Sam acknowledged with a small, theatrical bow, and Carly laughed and explained, "Everyone knows how to do The Robot, right?"

Freddie shook the camera from side-to-side, as if to say _No!_

"Here, like this," Sam said, and demonstrated her free-style moves, all tight, locked movements and swinging arms. Freddie laughed, zooming in.

"Very robot-ish," Carly complimented.

Sam straightened with a hop. "It's a talent. So, anyway, Robot Dancing is taking non-Robot moves to a whole new level. What moves, you ask? Show 'em, Carls."

As Carly performed, Sam called out each move:

"The Sprinkler." Carly, robot-esque, pivoted from left to right, spraying an imaginary audience with even more imaginary water.

"The Twist." A stiff yet vigorous shaking, where she looked like a broken toaster.

"And here's a real treat, folks. The classic, The Carlton."

Before Carly could illustrate, Freddie said, "Huh?"

Outraged, Sam explained, "From Fresh Prince of Bel-Air?"

Freddie turned the camera his way. "I have no idea what that is."

"Man," Sam said, turning the camera back on her, and she sounded depressed on Freddie's behalf, "you must've had one sad, lonely little childhood."

He cleared his throat, then said, "Just do it."

Carly performed, and after Sam's enthusiastic applause faded and Carly accepted the gratification with a lot of posturing, Sam said, "So now you know how to do--" She pressed the button and again the visual was triggered, as well as the booming, "Robot Dancing!"

"And now you and a bunch of your friends can go spread the word," Carly said.

Sam added, with some finality, "Word."

Carly gestured towards the camera and said, "Freddie, play us out."

"Playing us out," he repeated, hitting the key on his keyboard that set the credits in motion.

"And remember, kids," Sam said, over the rise of the play-out music. "Always dance responsibly."

After their webcast had ended, they all headed downstairs. Sam and Carly collapsed with their usual post-show exhaustion onto the couch while Freddie went and grabbed three green teas from the fridge. He passed them out and found a place to lounge, beside Carly.

"Good show, guys," he praised.

Sam waved him off. "Yeah, yeah. Fancy talk coming from the kid who's never seen The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air."

Freddie half-scoffed, half-laughed. Why did he feel like he was losing some serious cool points here? "It's not that big of a deal."

"You're hopeless."

"I just didn't grow up in front of the TV, that's all."

"You grew up in a plastic bubble where the big, bad TV wasn't allowed. Yeah, we've all heard this sob story before."

Freddie rolled his eyes. "I did not." Then he added, lamely, "Live in a plastic bubble."

"Plastic bubble, sterilized apartment cocoon." Sam shrugged like she failed to see the distinction. "Whatever."

"_Just_ because my Mom worries about my well-being--"

"Don't you have some kinda tick bath to go to?"

Carly cut in with a heaping dose of fake enthusiasm, "Who wants self-congratulatory smoothies!?"

Freddie glowered. "Suddenly," he said, super pointedly, lest anyone wasn't picking up on his ill feelings, "I've lost my appetite."

Sam was relentless, though. "Yeah? Looking at your ugly mug usually makes me feel the same way, too."

He wasn't buying it. "Really?" he demanded. "There's that much of a physical reaction that you, the human equivalent of a garbage disposal, don't want to eat? I find that hard to believe."

"Smoothies, anyone?" Carly tried again, feebly. "Delicious, pickle-free smoothies?"

Sam leaned over Carly to get in Freddie's face. Carly made a _oh!_ sound, but really, how surprised was she? Not so surprised, not even when Sam grabbed Freddie by the collar of his well-pressed shirt, which his Mother would have _something_ to say about that, you could count on it, and growled, "You really want to test my belief system? Because it involves punching, a man named Shirley, and a big block of fungus-licked cheese."

Knowing when he was defeated, he yelped, very manly, "Nope! No, I do not. Nuh-uh."

Sam was giving him that tight-lipped, clenched jaw look that usually meant she was debating whether or not she needed to reinforce her point with violence, or a wedgie.

But then Carly pushed Sam's hands out of the way, freeing Freddie, and she swarm up off the couch. "Enough already!" She wheeled around, all worked up and in a mood. "You see this face?" She pointed at herself. "I don't like it when you make me make this face, and right now? You're making me make this face!" And she was right. It wasn't a good face.

Sam exchanged a look with Freddie. Mostly it said _This is all your fault, nub_, but there was some apology there, too. That was rare and shocking enough that he, stupidly, accepted the blame himself. "Sorry," he said, fast, giving Sam a clear opening.

"Yeah. The dork just can't seem to help it."

"Oh, you made her face get that way, too," he defended, without realizing how it sounded. Then it hit him all of a sudden--why, Freddie, why choose such poor wording when you are so, so much smarter than that? _Think!_--and he backtracked. Freddie backtracked like he had never backtracked before, and that's including the time he accidentally called Sam a maniac to her face and she threatened to beat his skull in if he didn't offer up some fakely sweet apology that both degraded him and made her feel better.

"So," Sam said, and she stood up with an exaggerated slowness, all well-rested and pleased. "Smoothies, anyone?"

***

TBC!


End file.
